


Something Old and Something New

by The_Winter_Straw



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, coarse language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-18 02:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18976447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: No matter how cold winter gets, it cannot freeze the warmth of rebirth.





	Something Old and Something New

**Author's Note:**

> "However, after Tsuna defeated Byakuran, they were told that the future changed and all disasters caused by Byakuran and the Millefiore would be undone."
> 
> 1) I forgot about that detail until after I'd already written eight pages of this.  
> 2) That's a stupid-ass decision, and I've elected to ignore it.
> 
> This fic trade response comes from December 2017. The prompt was "The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful."

Byakuran was gone. No trace of the world’s former dictator remained, and so vanished the threat to the Vongola across the world. Winter started a new era for Tsuna’s family in particular, one of safety and warmth and comfort. After months of fear, the holiday season was a welcome change. Takeshi Yamamoto was free at last: free to return to his baseball career, free to return to his loved ones, free to go _home_. He chose the latter. There was too much for him to do to attempt either of the first. 

He awoke one December morning in the bedroom of his childhood. Everything was just as he remembered it, save for all the dust and a handful of cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. Underneath it all, the old trophies glistened on the shelves and photographs of times gone by hung in their frames on the walls. Even to the last, Takeshi’s old man had tried to keep things at home perfect. 

Groaning, Takeshi placed his feet on the frigid hard floor and pressed his palms into his eyes. Who was he kidding? His room was not just the way he’d left it because his dad liked things neat. His room was just the way he’d left it because his pop had hoped against hope that Takeshi would come home. In the end, it hadn’t mattered that Takeshi had. He’d still come home too late. 

He looked neither at the clock nor at his phone. First things first, he would pick up the newspaper. He pocketed his cell, stood with a frown, and pushed open the door that led to the hallway. The rest of the house looked less lived-in even than his bedroom. Dust laid on the wood floor so thickly that it muffled his footsteps, leaving an obvious trail of prints in his wake. Most of all, it was cold. The closer he grew to the restaurant, the more the temperature dropped, until he could see his breath fogging before his eyes. Maybe he should have stopped to put on a robe. 

As had become his habit since taking up residence in his dad’s place, Takeshi closed his eyes to pick through the empty seats and tables. He knew the route well enough by then that he didn’t trip. A few seconds later, he stood in front of the opened restaurant door—and found a blizzard blazing outside. Ice flew so fast through the air that he could barely make out the shape of the building across the street, and what he could make out was only because he knew it so well. If that morning’s newspaper had come, already it was buried underneath several feet of snow. 

He closed the door with a sigh. Wind continued to scream against it. The quiet tapping of flakes accompanied the sound. There would be no leaving the house that day. At last the task he had dreaded could no longer be avoided. When he turned, he saw the boxes, files and paperwork stacked throughout TakeSushi’s once bustling sitting room. Takeshi had come to put everything in order before he sold the place. There was no putting it off any further. 

Still, he tried. Takeshi took a long, hot shower. He shaved—his chin still looked strange to him, though the scar had been there nearly a year—and dressed warmly, started a fire in the front room’s fireplace, and even ate a very slow breakfast of oatmeal. Hardly an hour of his time had gone before he sat down at the first table to begin. 

Tsuyoshi Yamamoto had not left many details regarding what to do with his lifetime’s worth of belongings. Such a daunting task had got an offer of help even from _Gokudera_ of all people, but Takeshi had declined. He wanted to say goodbye to his old man on his own—or maybe he was disinclined to accept Vongola help when it was through the Vongola that his father’s death had come. Hopefully the former. It wouldn’t do for him to become so bitter after they all had come so far. 

Much of what remained was left to the family’s only child, of course. He sorted through container after container, removing things the will indicated were for people like Tsuna and Gokudera, for favorite customers, and even for Tsuna’s father, whom Tsuyoshi had grown a close friendship with in the last three years or so. These would be easy to get to their new owners—Tsuna could be trusted to distribute his family’s gifts properly—but others…not so much. 

Takeshi idly sifted through a box of his pop’s old school things while he listened to the phone on the other end of the line ring and ring. The noise seemed far too loud in the chilly quiet. Not even those with cars could risk getting out in this weather, leaving the neighborhood unnaturally still. 

“VOI! You know who the hell you called. Leave a message. Or don’t. I don’t give a shit!” 

“Squalo,” Takeshi’s voice came out of his throat unusually flat, “it’s Takeshi. Dad—well, you know. He’s left you a few things. Mostly Shigure Soen stuff. Give me a call back. I need to send it to you.” 

His head hanging, he hung up. He knew very well that Squalo wouldn’t call him back—not until Takeshi called another ten times and annoyed him into a rage, at any rate. There was still so much to do. So many things to give away. Maybe he wasn’t as ready to sell the place as he had once believed. 

Just as he was in real danger of falling into despair, _something_ hit the front door in rapid succession. Takeshi didn’t jump, but his focus sharpened. Only more ice, he thought. It was really coming down out there. 

Then the noise came again. Longer. Harder. Someone was outside. 

The danger from the Millefiore’s leader might have passed, but he was not so foolish as to believe its members completely fine with Byakuran’s defeat. Stupidly, Takeshi had left his sword in the bedroom. Gokudera would call him an idiot later, and he would deserve it. 

Again, the visitor, whoever they were, knocked, and this time around they didn’t let up. Lucky for him that Squalo’s box sat so close by. He gripped one of the long objects inside and slipped it noiselessly into the air. It was only a training sword, but that didn’t matter. Anything could be turned into a deadly weapon in Takeshi’s hands. 

Once he had crept to the door, he tried to peek out the window to get a better feel for what sort of threat he might be facing. He could see nothing through the blowing snow. 

“I’m sorry,” he called, “but we’re closed. Permanently. You’ll have to find somewhere else to get lunch from.” 

The knocking only hesitated for a beat before it started up again. 

“Fine,” Takeshi breathed, and threw the door open with all the force he could muster. Startled by the ensuing bang of door against wall, the person outside stopped their racket. He lowered his stick in surprise. “ _[Name]_?” 

Indeed his childhood friend stood there, knee deep in snow. Your face shone bright red behind the scarf wrapped around your neck. Frozen snot glistened on your upper lip. Most of your head and clothing was utterly indistinguishable through the ice plastered to your front. Clearly you had walked _into_ the wind the entire way there. Your violent shivering did nothing to distract from your scowl. 

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” you snarled as you stalked past him into the building. So taken aback by your sudden appearance was Takeshi that he did nothing to prevent you from doing so. He stepped back to let you in, then shut the door, all the while staring at you as though he’d seen a ghost. Only after a few seconds passed did he remember to set down Squalo’s training sword. 

“[Name], what are you _doing_ here?” 

You didn’t answer his question. For a moment, you said nothing at all while you tore off the sodden hat that obscured your [color] locks. “When did you get back to Japan?” you asked him without looking in his direction. 

He caught the real meaning of your question easily enough, and felt color rising up the back of his cold neck. The warmth was welcome. The obviousness of his shame less so. “Who told you?” 

You narrowed [color] eyes at him. “Bianchi.” 

“Oh.” 

That added up. Though Takeshi had been back in the country for some time now, he hadn’t got around to seeing you. He had known that he’d left you just when things between you were settling in. How could he reappear just to tell you that it was too dangerous for you to be seen with him? Though he had always intended to track you down eventually, he just didn’t know how to start. There had been all those messes: his younger self replacing him for several months, and his father getting killed. It was Bianchi who he had planned to ask how best to approach you once he had the time. As usual, she was several steps ahead of him. 

“Oh?” you repeated. “Is that all you can say for yourself? _Oh_?” 

“I didn’t mean for you to find out through someone else.” 

“Then how _did_ you mean for me to find out? Were you _ever_ going to tell me?” 

“Yes, but—” 

“All I know is Tsuna told me I had to go into hiding. When I finally got the all clear, everyone I knew was dead or missing, and _you_ want to pretend that didn’t happen and that I don’t exist!” 

“I don’t want to pretend you don’t exist,” he protested. 

‘Then why didn’t you come see me? Why didn’t you send me some sort of message?” 

“I’ve been busy, [Name].” A flurry of desperation warred inside him against the deadened emptiness he felt over all those deaths you mentioned. “We had to put everything back together. And,” he swallowed, “and my old man died.” 

Your eyes locked onto his. Seconds went by. Takeshi expected you to look around at the memories surrounding you, to realize that a man you both cared about was gone. Maybe you already knew, because you didn’t do any of that. What you _did_ do was clap your hands to your face and let out a muffled shriek. When you resurfaced, your scowl had returned. 

“I am too cold and sad to yell at you right now. I’ll come back when it’s warmer, but mark my words, Takeshi Yamamoto, you are on my _shit list_.” 

Shit list? He’d never been on your shit list before. Almost everyone you knew had been at one point, but not _Takeshi_. That, however, was hardly his greatest concern. “Come back?” He blinked, and then you were passing him toward the door. Unthinkingly, he grabbed your arm. “You can’t go back out there.” 

His touching you had the immediate effect of causing you to stiffen and try to wrench yourself free. “Let me go!” 

“It’s too cold.” 

“I don’t care!” 

Takeshi didn’t let go. The longer he waited, the less you struggled—although you never once lost the prominent frown. Was this really the same girl he’d got his first kiss from when he was sixteen? Yes, he mused, you’d always been like this. He’d missed it terribly. He just hadn’t noticed until now. 

“Stay until the storm blows over,” he said imploringly. “You shouldn’t have walked in it to begin with. You’ll catch cold.” 

“Bet you’d have liked it if I hadn’t shown up.” 

“Actually, I’m glad you came by. I’m going through Pop’s stuff, and I’m sure he left you a few things. They’ll be around here somewhere. Maybe you can help me look for it?” 

“Trapped or not, I’m not helping _you_ with anything. I’m mad at you, remember?” 

His shoulders slumped. Takeshi had really screwed up if your years of childhood together, of scrapes and bruises and t-ball games in the summer heat, meant so little now. But the more he looked at the familiar shape of you and smelled your comforting scent—the same perfume as always underneath the stench of wind and wet—the less he wanted to let you leave. 

“Let me make you some tea at least.” 

You lifted your head to regard him down the bridge of your nose. Then you ripped your arm out of his grip and said, “Fine. Least you could do.” 

“Great.” He managed a small, relieved grin. “I’ll go get it. Make yourself at home.” 

After waiting to see you settled into the booth closest to the fireplace, he ducked into the back of the kitchen. He found what he was looking for almost immediately. Tsuyoshi always liked you. It was he that had suggested Takeshi ask you to his first formal mafia ball, even if telling you the reason for the ball was not permitted. As such, he was not surprised at all to find a cabinet stocked with the tea that had long been your favorite. 

He returned to the front sitting room ten minutes later with a mug and a kettle full of steaming hot tea. 

“I’m back!” he said, smiling. “I made your favorite.” 

To Takeshi’s surprise, you no longer sat at any of the tables. He found you instead hastily surfacing from one his father’s boxes. You, however, acted as though nothing had happened. 

“Don’t think you can soften me up, Takeshi.” 

“I don’t. I think I _can_ warm you up, though.” 

You eyed him suspiciously as you took the cup he offered you in one hand and the kettle in the other. After pouring yourself a cup, you left the kettle on the nearest flat surface—in this case, one of the boxes Takeshi hadn’t got to yet. 

“What were you looking at?” he asked, watching you take a sip. 

“Nothing.” 

“Did you really walk all the way here just to yell at me?” 

“You deserve it.” 

“Yeah. I do.” His easy smile seemed to unnerve you, so he tried a different tactic: “I’m impressed you survived. I can’t imagine anyone getting out in that.” 

“What about Ryohei?” 

“Hana would have kept him inside on a day like today.” 

You snorted in a way that gave Takeshi heart, but said nothing further. He waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Eventually, you walked back to your table by the fire and sat down to trace shapes into the fogged window glass. 

He got up and went back to work. His phone sat next to the most recently opened box. In all the commotion of your arrival, he hadn’t noticed Squalo had sent him a text message: 

_“You call me ONE MORE TIME on this phone, brat, and I SWEAR TO GOD I’m dumping it and getting a new one.”_

Takeshi answered, _“Come on, Squalo. Some of this stuff is valuable. I’m not asking you to come all the way here to pick it up.”_

Only a second after he sent that message, he thought better of it, picked his cell up again, and added, _“It’d be good to see you though. You spent all your time with little me. We didn’t get to visit.”_

No response. As he put the phone away, he caught you looking at him from across the room. You looked away at once. Takeshi moved on to the next container. 

Time seemed to blur while he worked. Nothing existed except himself, his old man’s things, the sound of gale-force winds blasting against the walls, and the constant, nagging suggestion that he needed to do more while he had you there. He had no idea how long he’d gone without stopping—three boxes, maybe four—when he suddenly found a different mug of tea shoved in his face. 

“Huh?” 

He looked up. You towered above him, still looking upset even though your natural coloring had returned. 

“You should have some tea, too,” you said. “It’s freezing in here.” 

Was it? He’d hardly noticed. A glance at the fireplace showed him that the fire he’d started that morning was now hardly more than glowing embers. Takeshi twisted a grin in your direction. “Are you worried about me?” Because if you were, things might not be as dire as he’d suspected. 

“Of course I’m worried about you. What?” you added defensively. “I can be pissed off at you _and_ worried. It’s _really_ cold.” 

He laughed, making his way over to stoke the flames back to life. “That’s a lot of things to feel at once.” 

“Not all of us have the emotional range of a teaspoon. Now drink your damn tea.” 

Takeshi did. It thawed his insides enough to give him the courage to ask, “Remember when we’d have tea parties as kids? We’d dress up in costumes and pretend our stuffed animals were alive. Beg our parents for biscuits and say it was for them.” 

“Remember when Gokudera found a photo of the time you wore one of my dresses to a tea party?” 

“It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.” 

Perhaps his soft, nostalgic smile was too much. You turned away from it and from him once again. Takeshi looked out the window. Unfortunately, the storm continued. He knew you’d rather not be stuck inside with him after he’d avoided you for so long. Keeping you here wasn’t exactly fair. 

“Hey!” 

He rushed toward you, worried that you’d found something to make you angrier. You’d been digging around in one of the boxes he hadn’t touched yet, and there was no telling what his father had collected over the years. As soon as he got there, Takeshi saw the cause for your exclamation. 

You held in your hands a framed picture, this one of you and him from middle school. He couldn’t remember why it was taken. Both of you wore your sports uniforms and beamed from inside one of TakeSushi’s many booths. A pile of empty plates nearly up to Takeshi’s head sat on the table. The way his younger self was looking at you in the photo made the present Takeshi realize he’d been in love with you long before he’d _known_ he was in love with you. 

“I didn’t realize you still had this,” you said softly, one hand stroking the glass front of the frame. 

“I didn’t either,” he said. “Dad kept a lot of stuff I didn’t know about.” 

“You think _this_ is my box?” 

“Maybe. If not, it should be close by. Why? Do you really want it?” 

Your brusque demeanor immediately returned. “I want to get out of here as soon as possible. If I’ve got it packed when the snow stops, then I can leave without further ado.” 

He understood by the wetness in your eyes that you were lying, but Takeshi decided to play along. If you didn’t want comfort, then he wouldn’t force any on you. He backed away and returned to his own assignment with only a quiet, “Suit yourself.” 

He had another message: _“If it’s valuable, it should belong to the Prince.”_ A crowned smiley face punctuated the text. Takeshi wondered if Tsuna’s dad could get Squalo his things. It was going to take a long time to get them there himself if Squalo was in such a mood that he’d give his phone to Bel just to get rid of Takeshi’s messages. 

More time passed. Ice smacked with increasing intensity against the windows. The sun set, plunging the room into darkness save for the crackling fire. Takeshi could hardly see, but still he kept going. He was afraid that if he stopped, he would never be able to start again. Memories crowded around him: artifacts from his father’s study of Shigure Soen; secret family recipes that Takeshi already knew by heart; album after album after album filled with pictures of him as a baby, toddling around a beautiful woman he couldn’t remember: his mother. 

A soft sobbing and sniffling slowly penetrated his clouded mind. In his defense, he thought at first the sounds were his own. Tears streamed down his cheeks, obscuring his vision further even than the lack of sunlight. But no. That wasn’t _his_ crying that he heard. He looked up from the album. “[Name]?” 

No reply but an increase in sobs. His vision took a few seconds to adjust to the blackness of the restaurant. Once it did, he worked out that the quivering shape by the dying flames was you. 

“[Name]?” he said again. 

“What?” 

The word came out so soft and thick that he could hardly hear it, let alone understand it. Carefully, Takeshi picked his way to your side. This time, you didn’t glare at him or try to move father away. He crouched beside you, the better to see your tear-filled eyes. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

He knew you well enough to know that you wanted to shoo him off, to pretend that everything really was fine. He also knew you well enough to know you were more bothered by Tsuyoshi’s death than you pretended to be. After a minute or so of inner struggle, you shook your head and said in a watery voice: 

“He wrote me a letter.” 

“Who did?” 

“Your—your dad.” _That_ took Takeshi by surprise, but not as much as what you said next. “He said he hoped—hoped someday to call me his d- _daughter_.” 

With that, you dissolved fully into tears. His hand found your shoulder and squeezed. Heartened by you not shaking him off, he said, “Hey. It’s okay. He always said stuff like that.” 

You shook your head a second time, shoving the crumpled, slightly moist paper into his hand. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. 

Still crying into your knees, you nodded. Takeshi shifted closer to the fire to read while keeping as near to you as you would allow. The sight of his pop’s handwriting shocked him like a punch to the gut, but if you thought he should read the letter, then he would read the letter. Anything to quiet your crying. 

_Dear [Name],_

Before I begin, I must say that I hope you can forgive an old man’s meddling in affairs that are not his business. This letter should have been sent a long, long time ago. I suppose I thought I would talk to you in person about these matters, but you haven’t been by. Not since Takeshi left. I’m not surprised. Still, I feel that I should say all this while I still can. 

Takeshi leaving is what I wanted to meddle in. He loves you, even if he can’t tell you everything. The boy’s got secrets even from me. The ones I know about, I cannot share with you without his permission. That’s the way things are. But secret or not, he loves you. He always has. 

I know it hurts that he left. It hurts me, too. I worry about him every day. I know he loves his old man, though. That’s what gets me through. Maybe knowing that Takeshi loves you will help you get through his absence, too. 

I miss you at the shop. You’ve been around and underfoot since Takeshi could walk. Things aren’t the same without you two getting in the way. I understand why you haven’t come to see me—but I hope that you’ll be able to forgive him. I hope you will be underfoot again when he comes home. I hope he finally gets himself together and asks you to marry him. He’s only been talking about it since you both were five. 

He’s dense. You know I adore the boy, but again, that’s the way things are. It might be up to you. Either way, it’s this old man’s wish that he will one day call you his daughter. 

You are welcome here any time. Takeshi doesn’t have to be there. You’re old enough now that we can crack open the sake and eat fatty tuna, on the house. Maybe talk about how much we want him to come back. The invitation is always open. 

Best wishes, 

Tsuyoshi Yamamoto 

Takeshi’s eyes slid shut as they came to end of the letter. So his dad had known. Nothing much ever escaped him. If only Takeshi _had_ got himself together in time. If only his old man had got his dying wish. 

“He never sent it,” you croaked, breaking into Takeshi’s mournful thoughts and sounding even more miserable than he felt. 

“He probably never got the chance,” Takeshi said. “I’m sure it’s not because of anything you did.” 

“I should have come to see him.” 

“It’s not your fault he died. Or that you didn’t get the letter. Or that neither of us gave him what he really wanted.” For a long time, he watched the fire, until his eyes grew sightless and all that he could think of was how much life he had still left to live without his father’s guidance. Then it hit him: there was still time left to give Tsuyoshi what he’d always wanted. “We still could do that last one, though.” 

You paused in rubbing the tears from your cheeks to shoot him a sharp sort of look. “What?” 

“There’s still time to fulfill his dream,” he said slowly. He slid onto the ground to kneel in front of you. “[Name], will you—” 

Every speck of color drained from your face as you lurched into a standing position. “You better not be about to propose to me, Takeshi, or I swear I’ll—I’ll…I don’t know what I’ll do, but neither of us will like it!” 

Takeshi hesitated before he let out an embarrassed chuckle. “No. I haven’t got a ring, do I? Besides, you’re mad at me.” 

“Damn right I am.” 

He awkwardly stood up and went to sit again next to the fireplace. “What I was going to say was…would you stay the night with me?” At the look on your face, he quickly added, “not like that! I just…” scratching his cheek in characteristic thought, he peered up at you, “I miss my best friend. Maybe you don’t love me anymore. That’s okay. But you still love Dad, right?” 

For a moment, you were quiet. Then: “Yeah. He was a good man.” 

“Right. And by the sound of this, it’d break his heart to know we won’t even talk to each other anymore. So stay the night. Help me go through his stuff. Let’s see if there’s anything left of…us.” 

A longer moment passed. Takeshi’s heart pounded. What he would do if you refused, he didn’t know. He could not _keep_ you there against your will. 

His worrying was for naught. You sat next to him, blush evident even in the low firelight, and said, “One night.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I miss my best friend, too.” 

Takeshi beamed. 

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you said, and tipped your cheek onto his shoulder. 

“You know,” he said, “maybe we a don’t _have_ to sell the place. We could keep it. Reopen the shop.” 

“I don’t know how we’re gonna do that. You’re always busy with whatever Tsuna’s up to, and I’m not exactly housewife material. We don’t even know if we’re going to wind up together like that. You'd have to run the place all alone." 

“True. Guess I don’t have all the answers.” 

You settled your chin onto his shoulder to regard him wordlessly. A second later, you had kissed him softly on the lips. “You don’t have to. Now shut up so I can keep being angry with you.” 

It took all his strength not to grin. “Yes ma’am.” 

A smile _almost_ graced your lips as you turned away. You did not, however, leave his side. Warm by the fire, Takeshi listened to the blizzard blowing outside where it could not touch him. For the time being, he felt like nothing could. He was grateful for the fire, grateful for your company, and most of all grateful for his pop looking out for him even from beyond the grave. Something new stirred inside him—something he wished his father could see. But it was _because_ of Tsuyoshi that Takeshi could feel it himself: 

No matter how cold life got, there was always hope, always warmth to be found. No matter how lonely Takeshi felt, he would always have you.

* * *


End file.
